I can see you there, restless,
like a ghost. You dance a shadowy
tarantella through the nether regions of thought.
A delicate balance – a tightrope act.

Any time my sores seep you turn in my direction
and urge my fingers over letters,
dancing scorched landscapes through
spider-blackened memories.
You whistle in minor keys.
And now you hide from me
nestled in a smudgy cloud
of nothingness.

read more feed me ,
you whisper.

I read books to feed you.
I read poems to feed you.
I open my dictionary to random pages
and read.
All to feed you.

It’s bizarre, I know, but without you
I am strangely empty.

Like a dog I want to call you in,
and strap you to my side
but when I set you free and read more
you show up in these lines.

Brenda Warren 2012

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Process Notes: My muse disappeared, so I decided to write to her. It is reading that oils her magic.

This piece was written for The Sunday Whirl using the words in the underlying image.